


Catastrophe in Everything I'm Touching

by ab2fsycho



Series: Revolve [6]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Azran Legacy Spoilers, I REGRET NOTHING, M/M, Sex, Sexual Content, Spoilers, have i warned you enough yet, i'm ignoring vital info and i'm not sorry, i'm raining spoilers like confetti, i've been here long enough that i should know, in case you didn't get the message before, much explicit, okay, puttin' that out there just for ya, spoilers everywhere, this is happening, very nude, we are in the most spoilery areas, what even are tags, yep, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1491079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Descole had not been to Layton's home since the Ambrosia incident, but Layton finds a certain masked rival in his room. There last meeting had not gone at all well, so it's a shock to find him there at all, and without a weapon either. What's going on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catastrophe in Everything I'm Touching

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, by the way . . .
> 
> AZRAN LEGACY SPOILERS AHEAD

What had happened at the City of Miracles proved to be emotionally turbulent but ultimately rewarding, no matter how drained Layton felt now. Never had a case forced him to confront so much at one time. Digging up the past had been excruciating, but he’d regained so many connections he thought he’d lost forever that the pain had been worthwhile. His childhood friend was alive. That had been more than Layton could have ever asked for. To him, that was the one miracle that had truly mattered. The thought crossed his mind that he may have also severed some connections. He couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or upset at how that had turned out. He elected not to think about it.

A week afterwards, Luke had gone home to be with his family and Emmy was busy finalizing certain details of the investigation with Inspector Grosky. Layton was left alone. He hadn’t expected the loneliness to set in quite this terribly. Usually he savored these moments of solitude, but after such a quest he felt raw. He felt like he’d been sucked dry and would surely remain empty without someone there to speak to him and keep him thinking. Having friends (that’s what Luke and Emmy had truly become to him) had forced him into a different routine. It had forced him to accept connections with others rather than avoid them. He had many reasons for avoiding relationships of any sort, but they had changed that.

He complained of having no one to help him think, but the truth was his mind was lingering on the one thing he did not want to think about: Jean Descole. He did not want to remember their encounter, how he’d lost his temper and how Descole had reacted to having harmed him. His chest still bore the wound, and it hurt whenever he inhaled too deeply. It called attention to its origin every time the injury made itself known. Everything Layton had learned about Descole (which wasn’t very much, admittedly), felt wrong after that particular occurrence. Everything felt like it had been turned on its head and he couldn’t even fathom how to address it. He couldn’t even bring himself to anger on Luke’s or Emmy’s behalf again. All he could think of was how Descole had fled at the sight of Layton’s blood.

His time alone basically became a series of attempts at putting the thoughts he was having out of his mind. Deciding on an early bedtime, he left his seat and headed for his bedroom. Maybe sleep would help him in his endeavor to ignore the notion that Descole was beginning to show more than a passing interest in Layton. At least, that’s what his reaction to the damage he had done had indicated. Shaking his head, he couldn’t afford to analyze how that made him feel. 

Nowadays he didn’t bother closing the door, so he didn’t think twice about the door being half-open. Because the threat of a nightly visitor was no longer, he also didn’t put much thought into undressing outside of the restroom. Turning on the lights, he slipped off his jacket and turned to hang it up in his closet. That’s when he caught a glimpse of someone sitting on the floor out of the corner of his eye. When whoever it was looked up from his resting position, it startled Layton so terribly that he jumped and cried out in surprise. Throwing the jacket without taking the time to consider who it was and plastering himself against a wall, he fought to catch his breath.

Descole pulled the jacket from his head and sighed. “Thanks. Very smooth.”

“My word, what on earth were you thinking? Hiding in the corner behind the door,” Layton almost shouted, trying to slow his heart rate and loosen his muscles. 

“‘My word,’” his rival mimicked him. He then griped, “Hmph. At least you didn’t feel the need to use an expletive.” There was an unspoken ‘again’ in Descole’s tone. Layton’s cheeks almost colored over the fact that he had in fact cursed the last time they’d seen one another. “Good to know we’re back to polite exclamations.”

“I’m serious. Had I been closer, I might have accidentally hurt you,” Layton declared. 

“Then I suppose I should feel fortunate you don’t sleep with a sword under your pillow. I recommend it.” There was no humor in his voice. The comment seemed devoid of all feeling. Probably recalling our last meeting, Layton thought. He couldn’t imagine why that made him feel guilty. He’d been justified in getting upset, but . . . perhaps he shouldn’t have been quite so aggressive.

Afterwards Descole said nothing as he rested his head on his hands, which were clasped on one of his knees. As the professor straightened up and let out another sigh, he slid over to his bed and sat down so that he was facing his rival. “What are you doing here?” Descole still didn’t respond. He just sat slumped on the floor and avoided eye contact with Layton. His lack of response was starting to worry and irritate Layton simultaneously. “No offense, but didn’t everything go as planned this time? I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” Descole glanced up at him, but all Layton could really see of his face was the masked part. He never thought he’d get to ask these questions again. He’d been certain Descole was out of his life. Mostly. A mixture of rage over what Descole had done to Randall, curiosity over why Descole was here, and concern over Descole’s posture warred within him. Something had changed in the man. If their last encounter hadn’t made that clear to the professor, his behavior now sealed the envelope. Layton waited a few minutes, but Descole kept his lips shut tight. “I mean, where did you go after . . . after that?” He couldn’t bring up the fight directly. He couldn’t even bring himself to ask outright why the nightly visits had stopped. It wasn’t like he’d missed them. It was simply that nothing was making sense anymore. And all Descole had to offer was a vague stare which Layton couldn’t fully interpret. Something was more off about the man, and he wanted to know what it was.

“Not . . . everything has gone exactly as I’d planned,” Descole grumbled out. Layton had to strain to hear him as he spoke, for Descole wasn’t looking at him as he spoke.

For the first time, Layton realized just why Descole looked so different to him. His cape was missing, as was his boa. He looked disheveled, like he’d recently fought his way out of a situation. Layton had only seen him unkempt once, and that had been after they’d raised Ambrosia. He looked nowhere near as bad as he had then, but Descole still wasn’t himself. Descole lorded over his rivals. He boasted his discoveries. He didn’t sit on the floor in a dark corner of a room like . . . like he was hiding. But who from? Layton narrowed his eyes as Descole slowly tilted his head further downwards. Standing, Layton no longer asked. He demanded, “Tell me what has happened.” Descole shook his head slowly, refusing to answer. “You’re hiding. You think they won’t find you here, whoever they are.”

“I’m. Not. Hiding,” Descole growled, the words spaced so that the sentence came out more hostile than it typically would have.

“Tell me what’s going on,” because Layton wasn’t sure he could ever feel comfortable seeing Descole collapsed and cowering. He hadn’t liked it before, and he didn’t like it now. He especially didn’t like it now that he’d seen how reluctant Descole was to physically hurt him. But that wasn’t the case for others, Layton reminded himself. The thought slid from him like water on a raincoat. It refused to stick, though it was the most logical thing he’d conjured since their fight. Layton would have bet that even hinting that Descole was cowering would usually lead to a fight. This was not the masked rival who’d stood over and unnerved him late at night. Whatever had done this to Descole seemed like a bigger threat to Layton, and whatever had shifted the man’s attitude towards him seemed just as intimidating but for different reasons. 

Layton took one step closer only to have Descole jerk upright, his chest heaving and hands flat on the floor as if he were expecting to be attacked. Realizing what he’d done, he tried to appear as though he’d only meant to secure his mask and hat. This only succeeded in making Layton’s eyes narrow further. Before Layton could say anything, Descole anticipated the professor’s reaction and uttered, “Shut up.” 

Gritting his teeth, Layton dropped to the floor so that he was staring evenly into Descole’s face. “Will there ever be a time where you actually answer me?”

“What, you can’t crack me like some code?” his rival remarked.

The retort brought a smirk to Layton’s face. “Human beings are more complicated than that, I’m afraid. I assume you continue to follow me for similar reasons.” Descole opened his mouth like he wanted to protest, but Layton stopped him. “What was it you said to me that first night? This is one game I can’t win? You were right. And neither can you. We’re getting nowhere. We may as well admit to that.”

Descole let out a familiar huff, a noise that signified he was on the verge of losing his temper. Both men sat up straighter and set their jaws, staring at one another and waiting for the other to speak. Neither man did, though. Five minutes passed, but time felt slower. It felt torturous, and Layton was amazed at his own capacity to remain patient. The same could not be said for Descole. It was the one part of him that stayed part of his character even while under such pressure. There were just some things Descole was incapable of waiting for.

Layton’s rival stood up, fists clenched at his sides as Layton followed suit. After about another minute, Descole started to leave. Layton didn’t realize what he was doing until he’d already wrapped his hand around Descole’s forearm. A hiss escaped through his rival’s teeth as Descole turned slightly to stare at the hand gripping his arm. His mouth somewhat ajar, he looked like he was experiencing a mixture of discomfort and astonishment. Layton recognized the way the man flinched, however. He acted almost instinctually, pulling Descole closer and placing pressure on a particular region of the other man’s arm. His rival hissed again. “What are you doing?”

“How bad are your bruises?” Layton asked.

“What do you care?”

“What do you care if I bleed in a swordfight?” Layton countered. Descole froze, stunned back into silence by the accusation Layton had made indirectly. Layton once again found himself in a bit of a staring contest with the masked individual, only this time Descole was truly unreadable. Layton wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting from the other man. “What do you want, Descole?” he asked, unsure if he was really willing to help the man standing before him or if said man was even going to want it. Why else would he be there in Layton’s room?

Just as before, Descole didn’t give a verbal response. Releasing his arm, Layton was giving him his opportunity to either leave or speak. He did neither. Layton studied him, noticing just how quickly he was breathing. His open mouth closed after a moment, and it seemed he hadn’t taken his eyes off Layton’s. There was a noticeable tremble in Descole’s arm before his whole body stiffened. There was hesitation in him as he stepped closer so that he was standing toe-to-toe with Layton. It didn’t register in Layton’s mind what Descole was doing until he’d inched close enough for their faces to almost be touching. His eyes widened, his heart hammered, and his muscles froze. Once again, there was a voice inside Layton’s head yelling at him to run. Layton couldn’t. Descole paused and swallowed just before their lips met, as if waiting for Layton to push him away or at least step back. He couldn’t have moved if he had desperately wanted to. It was like a light had gone off in his brain just to blind and hinder him.

When Layton showed no sign of moving, Descole leaned in and kissed him. Layton closed his eyes, his mind suddenly misting over from the sensation. Common sense suddenly seemed a ridiculous concept. It must be, because there was no way in which common sense could possibly justify what was happening right then. The kiss was soft, tentative, and new. It was questioning and slow. It was making him dizzy, because he hadn’t felt this way in so long that he’d actually forgotten what it was like to have someone that close to him.

He’d forgotten what it was like to feel.

When Descole pulled back gradually and deliberately, Layton almost started leaning into the man for another before straightening and opening his eyes. The look of shock on Descole’s face was almost as disorienting as the kiss itself, and Layton felt completely perplexed. His bewilderment was apparent judging by the small smile tugging at Descole’s lips. If Layton didn’t know any better, he’d say his face was starting to heat up under that stare. The flush in Descole’s cheeks became obvious to him as well, but somehow that wasn’t exactly helping the situation. That was the best way he could phrase it. Seeing his rival’s face take on a redder tone was actually making Layton feel giddier than he would have ever imagined. He was confused by this, but also . . . .

Layton should not have found this as appealing as he did. His skin tingled as he longed to reach out for the person standing before him, longed to feel more. Emotions were drugs in their own right, and the feeling of having just been kissed only made him want to do it again. He actually did start leaning towards Descole again then, but he didn’t get to make contact before his rival grabbed either side of his face and pulled him in for a much deeper, much hungrier, much more sensual kiss than the previous. Layton actually thought he might have fallen over had he not latched onto Descole’s waist. Consequently, gripping that particular part of the other man’s body actually pulled him closer, and had Layton’s mouth not been otherwise occupied he might have gasped at the feeling of having another body pressed so tightly against his. Just being aware of how close together they were was enough to make all senses save for touch dull. Layton hardly noticed his hat falling off before one of Descole’s hands became tangled in his hair. The professor really did gasp against Descole’s lips when his rival ground his hips against Layton’s. Descole seized the opportunity to slip his tongue into Layton’s mouth, which won the man an unabashed groan. The depth of their kiss was more intoxicating than the anticipation of the one before.

Layton was breathless and overwhelmed by everything Descole was doing. It had been so long since he’d been shown any level of intimacy that he thought he might collapse just over this amount. He was stunned back to his senses when he made a misstep and wound up entangling his and Descole’s legs together. Their kiss was interrupted by the two of them making some disgruntled noise and tripping over each other before landing on Layton’s bed, Descole losing his hat in the process. Their foreheads smacked together as they lay flush against one another. Hissing at the pain, they wound up right back in the staring session they’d been in prior to that interlude. Descole sighed, his blush deepening as he said, “I feel I should apologize for what just happened.”

“Don’t do that. It wouldn’t be characteristic.”

The smile Layton received from Descole was dazzling, and Layton could feel his very insides heating as he stared at it. He was so busy staring at it he almost didn’t feel Descole unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. “Shall we continue?” he asked.

This was Layton’s opportunity to end this, to maintain some semblance of distance between the two of them and he found that he simply did not want to. Twining his fingers through dark hair that felt softer than he could have imagined, he tilted his head and offered his rival access to the skin on his throat. There was a small noise deep in Descole’s chest, almost like a purr, before he dipped his head down and bit the exposed flesh on Layton’s neck. Layton released a cry he would have deemed undignified in any other situation, but given the circumstances he was willing to make an exception. 

Descole’s mouth ventured to Layton’s collarbone, where he bit down on the professor’s skin. Layton let out another cry as his rival marked him, shocked at the intensity of the feeling as well as somewhat grateful he’d chosen the spot that he had because it would be easier to cover up. He continued his vocalizations as he realized the locale of Descole’s hands. Warm fingers wandered over the professor’s stomach after having untucked his shirt, sending involuntary shivers through Layton. Reaching for Descole’s face again, he wanted to pull him in for another kiss. When his fingers brushed the edge of the mask however, Descole’s purrs turned to growls as he grabbed Layton’s wrists and pinned them above his head. “I’m sorry!” Layton immediately said. “I wasn’t—.”

“You may not have meant to,” Descole snarled, the depth of his voice suddenly having a rather interesting effect on Layton, “but I’m going to take the extra precaution.”

“Wha—?” Layton was puzzled until Descole undid his own tie with one hand while holding Layton’s wrists in place with the other. Before Layton really had time to argue, his hands were tied. Glaring up at Descole, he started, “Now wait just a minute—.”

“Oh my, what have I done?” Descole interrupted him, his voice reverting to nonchalance. “I probably should’ve taken your shirt off before that.”

“Or maybe you should untie me,” Layton declared, pulling at his restraints. How on earth had Descole managed to tie such complex knots in that short amount of time? Whenever he tried to bring his wrists forward to see how to undo them, Descole found some subtle way to put them back in place above his head.

“No, I have a better idea,” his rival said with a hum, the sound somehow immobilizing Layton. His stillness gave Descole just enough time to take the professor’s shirt in both hands and tear the shirt straight down the middle.

Layton let out an astonished breath as his torso was exposed. He managed to compose himself just enough to grimace up at Descole and say, “Excuse me?!” Even he had to admit it was not his best retort.

But Descole remained unfazed, a crooked smile sliding across his face as he held his hands up and feigned innocence. “Oops,” he whispered. Pushing Layton’s now torn shirt up to his tied wrists, Descole covered the professor’s body with his. 

Before they continued, however, Descole honed in on the mark on Layton’s chest. The professor feared for a moment what was going through the man’s mind. He couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell if he felt guilty or angry or . . . he just couldn’t tell. Suddenly, Layton was breathless and helpless to stop Descole and he felt a mix of enticement and nervousness. The pause extended past his comfort zone, Descole tracing the outline of the wound with one finger that barely brushed Layton’s skin. “Descole, I—.”

The professor was silenced as his rival placed a light kiss on the injury. For some odd reason, that overrode his anxiety. Then Descole’s lips covered Layton’s again and Layton practically melted against the other man. When Descole pulled away again after only a moment’s worth of kissing, Layton actually whined but didn’t open his eyes. That made his rival chuckle. “You are an absolutely loathsome individual. Do you know that?”

Opening his eyes slowly, he watched as Descole began taking off his jacket and shirt so slowly it seemed more like he was teasing Layton. “What brought you to that conclusion?” Layton asked, entertaining the idea Descole had presented.

There were two thuds on Layton’s floor as Descole kicked off his shoes. “All that knowledge, all the posturing and gentlemanly mannerisms, and yet you appear to be one of the most boring individuals I’ve ever had the pleasure of not knowing.”

Layton chuckled at that as Descole pulled his arms out of his sleeves. “You may be wrong. You might actually know me better than those closest to me. You’ve broken into my private property enough to discover just about anything.”

“Hmph.” With a smile, Descole added, “It can’t compare to actually getting inside that brain of yours.”

“I certainly hope you don’t intend to crack open my skull. You’re in the prime position to do such a thing.”

Layton’s breath hitched as Descole leaned downward, mouth creeping dangerously close to his jugular before his rival’s breath tickled his ear. Layton trembled at the feeling, and he could just hear the smile in Descole’s voice as the man whispered, “It’s not your _skull_ I’m interested in getting into right now.” Layton shuddered as Descole’s mouth resumed its torture on Layton’s neck. Layton let out another series of cries while the other man’s hands resumed their wandering of the professor’s exposed skin. Layton almost screamed when a thumb brushed over one of his nipples. Descole hummed against his throat before kissing Layton again, the man’s other thumb doing the same to the professor’s opposite nipple. Layton cried out into Descole’s mouth, once again allowing his rival’s tongue access to his mouth. By the time Descole’s hands had stopped roaming, Layton was a shaky mess and beyond begging for more. He felt the absence of his rival’s hands faster than he wanted to admit, and found himself moaning as Descole’s kisses suddenly became more forceful and demanding. His flesh felt like it would burst into flames at any moment, and the feeling only intensified when Descole palmed at the sorely obvious bulge in Layton’s trousers. Layton bit his own lip to keep from releasing a noise that would have been much more embarrassing than anything he’d unleashed before. Hearing Descole’s shortened breaths in response to Layton’s desire made the professor’s spine tingle and before he caught himself, he was bucking into Descole’s hand. “Goddammit Layton, I hate you,” Descole practically panted out.

“I find myself unconvinced,” Layton managed past his own rapid breathing. He whimpered as Descole’s hand left his crotch, but the lack of contact was short-lived as Descole began grinding his own erection against Layton’s. Layton’s back arched as he rose to meet Descole’s thrusts.

After a moment, Descole pulled back and began undoing Layton’s trousers. A wave of self-consciousness washed over the professor as his rival pulled his trousers and pants off, leaving Layton completely naked before him. There was a pause as the two locked gazes, their breathing equally ragged. Layton was utterly taken aback the minute Descole dipped down and licked a stripe along Layton’s length. The professor sucked in several intakes of air, shocked at how overwhelming that one feeling had been. His eyes closed, he could have sworn he heard a laugh escape Descole before the other man took Layton into his mouth and began sucking. Layton couldn’t breathe, and he had to fight to keep himself from squirming over the sensation. He wasn’t entirely aware of the noises he was making, but was certain that if he was he’d be even redder in the face than he already was. That thought and the feeling of Descole’s tongue circling him made Layton cover his face with his bound hands. When he did that, however, Descole pulled away. Yet another whimper escaped the professor as his rival crawled up the length of his body to push his hands from his face. Layton opened his eyes gradually, finding a grinning Descole staring back at him.

While the experience had been enjoyable thus far, Layton was through with Descole being in control. Before his rival realized what he intended to do, Layton hooked his tied wrists behind the other man’s head and flipped them both over so that Layton was straddling Descole. This time it was Descole who was left breathless and flabbergasted at the position he was in. Somehow what was revealed of the man’s facial expression made the muscles in Layton’s abdomen tighten further. Then Descole’s crooked smile returned as he asked, “What now, Professor?”

Layton couldn’t stop himself from returning the smirk. “Trousers off.” To his amusement, Descole obeyed. Reaching between them, he was able to undo his own trousers and slide them and his pants low enough for him to kick them off with his feet. Both were almost completely exposed to one another, but even though Layton was the most vulnerable Descole made no move to take advantage of said vulnerability. Layton positioned himself atop Descole, lining himself up with his rival. When he started thrusting, Descole’s jaw dropped as his hands gripped Layton’s hips. The feeling sent Layton’s gut twisting as he struggled to maintain his rhythm. Soon Descole’s own hips were rising to meet Layton’s, and a series of moans came pouring out of both men. Layton could feel his insides tightening, his control slipping slowly away. He lost complete control as Descole reached between them, taking both of their members in his hand and pumping them. Layton was on the verge of collapsing when Descole wrapped an arm around his waist and flipped him back onto his back. Descole’s rhythm was steadier, more aggressive. His hand remained active between them and Layton felt like his insides were ready to burst. His hands still hooked behind Descole’s head, he clenched his fists in the other man’s hair and tried to match his pace. When his insides finally did give under the pressure and his orgasm rendered him motionless, Descole continued pumping and riding them until he joined Layton in release.

For a second, all senses dulled and neither man moved. Then everything came flooding back to them. The sound of the other breathing, the feeling of their bodies being pressed together, the taste of the other’s lips, the scent of their sweat, the sight of . . . were those bruises?

Layton’s eyes focused in on Descole’s arms, his biceps and forearms purpled with marks. Layton moved to touch them, but momentarily forgot that his hands were still tied. Descole noticed the movement and caught on to Layton’s staring. Glancing at his own arms, he sighed. The noise was almost sad, and Layton couldn’t figure out why.

Descole removed Layton’s arms from behind his head and for a moment, Layton thought his rival was going to leave him there naked with his hands tied. Instead, he rolled onto his back and sprawled out beside Layton. Their breathing was still heavy and uneven, but slower than before. Staring at his bound wrists, Layton then closed his eyes and let out a long exhale. Then the anxiety hit him. He’d just had sex with his rival. He hadn’t done anything like this in . . . he couldn’t remember how many years. Still, he wasn’t sure those intimate moments really counted compared to what he and Descole had just done. His chest felt tight as he wondered just how he was going to explain this to . . . who, exactly? No one had to know, right?

Turning to Descole, he could see the same dilemma on the other man’s face. As he watched the gears working in Descole’s mind, he realized they had another problem: how on earth were they going to address each other after this? His gaze landed on the bruises again, and he found himself wondering how he’d received them. If he didn’t know any better he’d say someone, maybe several people, had held Descole down. He couldn’t imagine how that must have made his rival feel. If he knew anything about Descole, he knew the man was prideful. Still, Layton wondered how and why his rival had come to be in his bedroom that night.

It was Descole who spoke first. Rubbing his hands over his face and groaning, he didn’t look at Layton. A simple, “Well,” was the only audible utterance that passed his lips.

“Well,” Layton said as well. A memory sprang to the forefront of his mind, a comment from a conversation they’d had before. It made Layton smile, and before he could stop himself he asked, “How’s that for dead below the waist?” There was a bit of silence before Descole burst out laughing. It was a deep laugh, similar to the purr that had originated down in his chest earlier. A great deal of the anxiety dissipated once his rival laughed. Layton even found himself smiling wider. He didn’t share in the laughter, but he did relax more. Once it had calmed a bit, Layton stared at his hands. It occurred to him to ask, “Am I going to be freed any time soon?”

After the outburst died down completely, Descole declared, “No. I think I’m going to leave you like that.”

Layton went stiff. “Excuse me?” Descole gave him a sly grin. “Are you being serious right now?”

“I’m absolutely serious. Get comfortable. You’re staying tied up.”

Layton glared at Descole as his rival got out of bed and began gathering his clothes. “I most certainly am not!” Layton objected. 

“Yes you are,” Descole sang as he pulled a handkerchief from out of his coat pocket and wiped the mess off his own stomach. “Keep protesting and I’ll hogtie you.” Layton began struggling against his bonds in defiance, even using his teeth in an attempt to undo the knots. He stopped struggling when he felt Descole wiping off Layton’s stomach. “Easy on that tie. It’s not yours to chew.” Descole lingered over Layton, staring down at him with an expression the professor couldn’t decipher. Had the mask not been obstructing his view of the other man, he might have said the expression could have been somewhat warm. However, this was Descole and he was likely plotting something. Descole let out an exaggerated sigh before adding, “I guess I can’t just leave you tied up all by yourself.”

“What?” Layton asked.

Descole collected his pants and trousers, sliding those on as he said, “Well you can’t expect me to just leave my tie here now, can you?”

Layton snorted. “I see your priorities are in order.”

Descole began sifting through Layton’s drawers, looking for something specific. “Quite. Now where did I see you—ah yes! Here we are.” He pulled from one of the drawers some night trousers, holding them up almost triumphantly. 

Layton rolled his eyes. “I can dress myself, thank you. Untie me.”

“No, this is too much fun.” Descole’s grin turned even more devilish. “Unless you want to sleep in the nude.”

“No.”

“Then I guess I’m dressing you.” 



Layton conceded to sleeping with his hands tied, though not without a few more protestations much to Descole’s delight. When he was certain Layton was actually asleep, he went ahead and untied him. Descole himself got no rest.

A myriad of thoughts swam through his mind as he stayed beside his rival, the professor using his arm as a pillow while Descole watched him sleep. Counting the other man’s breaths, Descole knew he was in for an earful from Raymond when he returned home. He stared at the bruises on his arm, which was draped over Layton’s body. He kept finding it harder and harder to speak to Layton. If he told Layton anything about what had happened with Targent and their leader Bronev, it would endanger Layton. That seemed hypocritical, especially considering what his next plan of action would require. Layton would appear on Bronev’s radar then, and there was no doubt the notorious individual would threaten Layton’s surviving family. The thought of having Layton endure what Descole already had made his stomach turn. At least in this next phase of his plan, Layton would be close enough to him that Descole could properly protect him.

Yes, Raymond was going to lecture him for forty-eight hours straight on how closeness to Layton and his team was going to get him nothing but injured. As Descole saw it, he was going to be injured no matter what. If things worked out in his favor, fewer would be hurt in this scenario. While many viewed him as a man of questionable morals (well, he wouldn’t deny that that’s what had become of him), he had not yet succeeded in intentionally hurting anyone. The one individual under his thumb who had actually killed a man . . . he was thankful to be done with that imbecile. However, there were no clear standards for Targent. That group didn’t care who they destroyed in order to accomplish their goals. The organization made Descole sick.

Descole loathed Layton at times like these. He’d come here loathing the man and he was going to leave loathing him still. Why? Because Descole had not felt any semblance of calm since Targent had attacked him. He had not relaxed until he was in the same vicinity as Layton, and that was wrong on so many levels. It was wrong for him to feel so comfortable around this man, this man who had the knowledge and skills to both enable and destroy everything Descole had worked towards since Targent had taken . . . since they had killed . . . .

Without any warning, Descole buried his face against Layton’s shoulder. The lenses in his mask misted, preventing him from seeing. More than anything, he wished he could take it off. He wished he’d never had any cause to wear the damn thing. It was too late to go back. It was too late to return to a time where he didn’t care what happened in the future. Once again, he had something to lose. In fact, he had something he was going to lose no matter what and that was enough for him to covet the ability to turn off his emotions completely. He thought he’d mastered that ability, but he was wrong. Layton had proven him wrong again, only this time he didn’t feel rage. He felt despair.

He stiffened completely when Layton’s arms wrapped around him. Reaching under his mask to wipe the condensation from the lenses, he checked to make sure Layton was still asleep. He was. Looking at his own limbs, Descole hadn’t realized he was gripping the professor so tight. Releasing him, he caught sight of the mark his sword had made on the professor’s chest and decided it was time for him to go.

Whatever god was watching knew that he really didn’t want to, though.



“Are you alright, Professor?” Emmy asked when next she saw him.

“Yes, what makes you think otherwise?”

“You do seem a bit different. Less focused,” Luke agreed with Emmy.

“The kid’s right,” Emmy conceded.

When Luke and Emmy agreed on something, that could only mean what they were observing was true. However, Layton couldn’t very well disclose what was troubling him in full. Instead, he elected to tell them, “I’m losing sleep. That’s all.”

It wasn’t a lie. He’d lost sleep ever since that night with Descole. He’d stopped counting the days that had passed since it had happened, but he hadn’t stopped asking himself questions. By now, one would think he would have given up on asking questions he knew full well he’d never have answered. Still they came, and still his mind never rested.

“Will you be able to focus on this letter, then, Professor?” Emmy asked, holding out the opened envelope with papers folded neatly inside.

He nodded. “You’ve read it?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s from a Professor Sycamore. Says he’s found something you might be interested in.”

**Author's Note:**

> Next fic, we are on board a certain airship if you know what I mean.


End file.
